Bellagrand: A Novel (38 page)

Harry took the sated child out of his mother’s arms. “Don’t listen to your mother, Alexander,” he said, wiping his son’s face and carrying him away for an afternoon stroll by the water. “Salvo is trying to remake the entire world Sicilian. What’s wrong with that?” He kissed him. “Perhaps when you grow up, you can remake the entire world revolutionary.”

Alexander didn’t know what it was like to be laid down for a nap in a bassinet in an empty room, to not sleep in someone’s arms, to be left alone. All summer long he was either with Esther and Rosa, who bathed him and swam in the pool with him and wheeled him in a stroller through Spanish City, taking him out every two minutes “to check on him,” or with Fernando and Salvo, who took him out on the boat and on car rides in the Tourister, with the windows down and the little boy gulping for air, unable to catch a breath in the hot Palm Beach wind. They left him lying on a blanket as they sat on the sand by the ocean, smoked and drank and played their guitars, and talked about girls, only to have Esther and Rosa snatch the boy from them on their own afternoon promenade down the dunes of Jupiter as they talked about the tantalizing but impossible Salvo.

Six

GINA THOUGHT ESTHER MIGHT
be upset by Rosa and Salvo’s fleeting flirtation. Nothing concrete, but Gina noticed an undertow of antagonism that flowed from Esther after a current of seemingly happy evenings with Rosa and Salvo. Not toward Salvo, mind you, but toward Gina! Perhaps Esther considered Salvo a child, beyond or below adult criticism. Gina decided Esther needed a girl-to-girl conversation. Gina had some advice for Esther, though she didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to offer it unsolicited.

So one night, when the two women were sitting out front on the white marble steps by the Bellagrand fountain, holding Alexander and trying to listen for the ocean waves while the revelry continued unabated out back, Gina gulped and took a chance. “Esther, please forgive me for being presumptuous,” she said. “I feel like I can speak to you frankly, but only because we’ve had a Cubanito and you’re holding my son in your arms.”

“Spit it out. Is it about Rosa?”

“Rosa? No. What about her?”

“The little game your brother is playing with her heart.”

“They’re just having fun, Esther. Nothing more.” Her heart! Gina had warned Rosa that no heart was allowed to be involved in any dealings with Salvo. Did she listen? Of course not. And now Gina was being blamed for it.

“Fun?” Esther said. “In five minutes my able assistant is going to require an escape through a trapdoor from the sort of fun your utterly faithless brother is offering her.”

“It’s not about them . . .” There it was again, the sharpened blade lodged in Esther’s manner toward her.

“What is it about, then?”

“I feel you’re upset about something, Esther. I can’t quite figure it out. Is it something I’ve done?”

Esther sat quietly, rocking Alexander back and forth. She bent, kissed the child’s head, glanced at his mother, and shook her head. “No.” She sighed, but through a pursed mouth, as if she were holding herself in check and didn’t want to say any more. “I apologize if I’ve given you that impression. Everything is fine.”

Gina didn’t believe her. She pressed on. “Is it about your father?”

“No. But what about him?”

“That he is alone up north while we’re hooting it up down here? Please, ask him to come and stay with us. There’s plenty of room. We would love to have him in our house.”

“First of all,” said Esther, “do you think my Rosa is hooting it up? Those two bandits, Fernando and your brother maybe. But who else is a-hooting? My own brother can’t get any peace from morning to night. The other day he asked me if this was really prison, why was there no curfew. And second of all, dear girl, even if I could somehow convince my father that his ill health could sustain a trip south, after what Harry and I told you about Bellagrand, do you really think he would come to the place he has spent the last thirty years blotting out of his mind?”

“Like father, like son,” Gina said. “But Harry somehow managed. Perhaps Herman will, too.”

“I doubt it. If ever there was a man who does not like to be reminded of unpleasant things, it’s my father.”

“Not just him,” Gina muttered.

“Perhaps if Harry wrote to him personally,” Esther said. “Invited him for the holidays. I don’t know. Maybe. But I do know that neither you nor I will be able to persuade him. Harry’s the only one who’s got a lick of a chance. Is this what you wanted to speak to me about?”

“No.” Gina blurted it out. “Esther, I think you should sell your mother’s jewelry.”

“What?” Esther whirled her head to Gina.

Nodding, Gina quickly went on. “I do. Not all of it. But the vast majority. I think that jewelry is like weights around your ankles. It prevents you from living your life.”

“That Cubanito has gone to your head,” Esther said coldly. “I’m not
trying
to live my life, you silly creature. I
am
living my life.”

“I thought maybe a romance, Esther . . .”

“A romance!” Esther mock-laughed. “For your information, I’ve already been married, and widowed. I’ll soon be fifty. What are you talking about, a romance? It must be the drink. Oh Lord. If this isn’t proof you should drink less . . .”

“Get rid of it, Esther,” Gina said imploringly. “You don’t wear any of it. What’s the point? I promise you, your heart will be lighter. And other people will see that.” Other men, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

Esther glared at Gina with stunned iciness. “What could you
possibly
know about my heart, Gina Attaviano?”

“It’s Barrington, Esther, and I know
something
about it.” Gina lowered her head, not wanting to glimpse on Esther’s face the remnants of love for a man long gone. She had hoped that Ben had been
le cose da bambino,
a childish thing that Esther had long put away. And yet anytime someone in the house mentioned Panama, bananas, canals, ship liners, engineers, the Army Corps, Esther visibly stiffened, noticeably altered in her expression, became more brusque, more pointed, more polarizing, as if perhaps the trunk of her mother’s jewels was not the only weight around her heart.

But perhaps, just perhaps, Gina looked away so that Esther couldn’t accidentally glimpse on Gina’s face the things that Esther should never see.

“I’ve always felt there was something weighing on you, Esther.”

“Weighing on me,” Esther repeated dully.

“Keep the things you will wear,” Gina said, “and everything else be gone! Buy yourself a marble urn, or a statue for the yard, or donate to your local church, or . . .”

“Thank you for your advice, Gina,” Esther said, giving Alexander back to her and struggling up. “I’m getting tired. That great and awful liquor went straight to my head, as clearly as to yours. I think I’ll turn in.” She paused. “Before I say something I will live to regret.” Without another word, even goodnight, Esther pushed open the castle gate doors and disappeared inside.

Gina sat for a long time on the marble steps under the portico, listening for the ocean in front of her, for the Spanish guitar behind her, breathing in her sleeping son, the briny air.

What do we do, my sweet child, my little
bambino
,
il mio amato figlio
? How do we make your
zia
better? You know who makes her better? You. Every time she looks at you she softens into a pillow. Do you know why? Because there is love, she whispered over Alexander, waving her hand toward the far distance, bending to him, kissing him, caressing him, staring at him, and then there is
Love.

Chapter 12

B
IRDS OF
P
ARADISE

One

Dear Father,

Gina, Alexander, and I, and Salvo also, would be most happy if you and Esther could join us for the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Father, I hope you’re well enough to travel. The weather here is easy, and the ocean water is always warm. No doubt, Esther has told you. It was very enjoyable having her here, and we missed her when she left in September. Please come and stay as long as you like. I have repainted our boat. You would like it. There is very good fishing down on Lake Worth.

Sincerely,

Harry

A letter came back to Harry by return post.

Dear Harry,

Thank you for your kind invitation. Yes, Esther regaled me with many stories about her successful visit. Thank you for being such good hosts to her. Unfortunately I’m not well enough to travel at the moment, so we won’t be able to come for Thanksgiving. But perhaps I will feel a little better by Christmas. Please say hello to Gina and Alexander from all of us.

Sincerely,

Father

P.S. Louis passed away two weeks ago. He said to tell you Matthew 6:21.

And so for Christmas 1919, Esther, Herman, and Rosa took a train from Boston to the Treasure Coast to spend the holidays. Esther told Gina in advance that Herman would only be able to stay until mid-January. “We’ll go back when we won’t be able to buy alcohol anymore, on January 16, all right?”

“No, that’s when you should stay longer,” Gina told Esther. “Because Bellagrand is stockpiled to the rafters with Cuban rum.”

“I hope to God you’re joking,” said Esther and hung up.

And soon they were at Bellagrand. Gina watched as Herman was helped out of the Tourister by Fernando. Gruffly the older man shooed everyone away, straightened up, and lifted his eyes, not to Gina or to Harry standing on the portico, waving hello, but above them, and beyond them. Esther stood by his side.

For a suspended moment Gina watched Herman, with his chin up and his shoulders stooped, gaze with anguished wonder at the white villa another man had built for his wife. Harry knocked into her slightly. “You call that easy?” he whispered. “Look at him.”

“Never mind that,” Gina said. “We have a boy to make him forget everything, even pain that will not be forgot.”

“I would not put my last dollar on that,” said Harry, heading down the stairs. “Father! Hello.”

“Hello, son,” Herman said, taking his eyes off the house and focusing on Harry. They shook hands. Herman patted Harry’s arm. “How are you? You look well.”

“Thank you. Yes, prison agrees with me.”

“Yes, son, indeed it does. It’d be a shame if it didn’t, you spend so much time in it.”

Harry cast Gina a sideways glare.

“Herman!” she said, coming up to him with a smile, giving him a hug and a kiss. “Thank you for coming. Harry and I are so very happy to see you. Aren’t we, Harry?”

“Yes, of course. How was your trip, Father?”

“Blessedly uneventful, thank you.” Almost imperceptibly, Herman sighed, and forced his features to soften slightly. “Weather is pleasant here in December, isn’t it? Is it always like this?”

Harry nodded with pride, as if the clement weather were his doing. “One of the best things about this area.”

“What’s it now, about seventy?”

“Seventy-nine according to the thermometer.”

“Very impressive. Is it too hot to sleep?”

“No, it gets cooler at night. It’s breezy between the two waters. We leave all the windows open. You’ll see.”

“Does the salt air corrode everything inside the house, the pots, the metal fixtures?”

“Not yet,” Harry said.

“I see it’s quite windy. Are the waves impossible to swim in?”

“Usually no. The waves are mild. Mild enough even for Alexander to go swimming with his mother. Even though she knows I don’t approve.”

“The boy loves it, Herman,” Gina said. “And so will you. Come in, please. No use standing on the doorstep like delivery boys. Esther, how are you? You haven’t said a word.”

When they looked over at Esther, she was dabbing her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” Herman frowned.

Harry waved it away. “Pay her no mind, Father. You will unfortunately witness a certain inexplicable mawkishness when it comes to the women who enter this house. The best remedy is to ignore them. Really. Come in, please.”

Herman started through the doors. “Yes, but
why,
Esther
?
”

“He’s right, Father,” Esther replied. “It’s best to ignore me.”

Once inside, Herman barely glanced around. He wasn’t easily impressed. “Are you going to have any room for me, son? Gina told us all the rooms in your shack are filled with liquor.”

“Indeed they are,” Harry said. “But don’t worry, we made the cupboard under the stairs like a mansion for you.”

“Are you thirsty, Herman?” Gina pointed to a filled glass pitcher. “Would you like some lemonade? I make it myself.”

“I’m fine for now. What happened to your voice, Gina? You don’t sound like yourself.”

Ruefully she smiled. “Your grandson happened to my voice. I strained it, and it’s never recovered.”

Harry leaned into her from behind, whispering, “But now you sound like you’re always
nuda nel letto
. . .”

“Marito,
shh!”

“Speaking of this grandson . . .” Herman said, walking toward the sunlit kitchen. “Is he a phantom?”

“No, he’s sleeping.” Gina caught up with him.

Herman looked disappointed. “In his bed?”

“Oh no, Father,” Harry said. “The child doesn’t know what the term
his bed
means.” Arching his brows at Gina, he prodded her forward. “Go introduce him to Alexander. Though I doubt Salvo will part with him. I’ll go take Father’s trunk upstairs.”

“He’ll have to part with him now,” Esther said, walking purposefully outside. “
We’re
here.”

On the green grass of the great lawn, Herman met Salvo reclining in a chaise lounge under full sun. On his bare chest lay a sleeping form covered from head to toe with cotton blankets. The men shook hands. “How are you, Mr. Barrington? Sorry I can’t get up to greet you, but I’ve got . . .” Salvo nodded toward the baby on his chest.

“No need to apologize. And please do call me Herman.”

Esther stepped forward. “Salvo, I can’t believe you’re keeping him in the sun like that,” she said, swiping the child and all his blankets off her brother-in-law. “He’ll get heat stroke.”

“He’s completely covered,” said Salvo. “
I’ll
get heat stroke.”

“Then why aren’t you sitting in the shade?”

“And hello to you too, dear Esther,” Salvo said with a smile. “Nice to see you again. Back so soon?”

“I’ve been gone three months.”

“And one week.”

Separating them by walking between them with a tray of lemonade and glasses, Gina elbowed Salvo in the stomach. “Herman, here’s some lemonade for you. Are you hungry?”

“Not yet, but thank you.” He downed the lemonade in two gulps. And yet not five minutes earlier he had been saying he wasn’t thirsty. Gina called for Emilio to get lunch on the table. Esther was trying to wake up Alexander with little success.

Herman stepped toward the house. “Esther, let the poor child rest. I know how he feels.” He smiled at Gina. “If you would be so kind as to point me to my cupboard under the stairs, I’m going to go freshen up.” He glanced at the large, covered shape in Esther’s arms. “I’m sure he is a fine boy,” said Herman.

Gina left Alexander with Esther for a few hours while she went Christmas shopping with Fernando and Rosa. As soon as Alexander sensed he was being left without his mother, he began to cry. Esther rocked him, cajoled and carried him through the vast downstairs rooms, but he continued to express his ardent displeasure. Besides Carmela there was no one to help her.

Herman came in from the outside, where he was relaxing by the pool, his gray head shaking.

“Why the ruckus?”

Esther showed him the wailing baby.

“No, I know
who’s
making the ruckus. I hear that. What does he want?” Herman squinted his eyes and flinched because the boy really was making a lot of noise. He stood at the open French doors for a moment and then walked in, leaning on his cane. His rheumatoid arthritis made his movements slow, his breathing labored. Exertion was difficult.

“I don’t know.”

“Where is his mother?”

“Out shopping.”

“Where’s Rosa?”

“With her. So is Fernando.”

“Where’s the child’s father?”

“You mean your son? Trying to catch your dinner.”

“Where’s the man you don’t care for?”

“With the child’s father.”

Herman studied the screaming boy. “Maybe he’s hungry.”

“She fed him right before she left,” Esther said. “He’s not supposed to eat again until she returns.”

“Clearly she is wrong. Do you hear the hollering? He is starved.”

“Father, I don’t think so. In any case, we’ve got nothing for him. He is on milk only.”

“Milk only! How old is he? School-age?”

“Six months.”

“So go get him some milk.”

“Not that kind of milk.”

“Oh.” Herman stood by the breakfast table, cautiously. Esther circled the kitchen jostling the boy up and down. “Esther, what the devil are you doing?”

“What? I’m rocking him. Movement helps.”

“That isn’t movement, you’ll shake his stuffing out. Besides he’s been on a blue streak for half an hour. Has it been helping?”

“Think how bad it would be if I weren’t doing it.”

“It could hardly be worse. Try something else.”

“Like what?” She patted the baby’s back in brisk movements.

“Why are you walloping him?”

“I’m trying to get him to burp.”

“Maybe he needs changing?”

“I changed him.”

“Would he like to go for a walk?”

“I don’t know, do I?” Esther sounded slightly hysterical, as if at any moment she herself might start hollering.

Herman took another step inside the house and sat in the wingback chair by the French doors that led to the lanai. “Give him here,” he said.

“Father, he needs to be walked, you can’t just sit . . .”

“Give him here, will you.”

Gingerly, Esther handed Alexander to Herman. The exchange took an excruciatingly long time because the big boy wriggled so frantically that both father and daughter were terrified of dropping him. “Isn’t he a squirmer,” Herman said. “What in heaven’s name is the matter?” he asked the boy, finally getting a firm hold of him. “Shh. Why are you making such a fuss?” He held the baby close to his chest, upright. “There, there. It’s fine. Nothing to cry about. Wait until you grow up. Then you’ll have something to cry about. At your age there’s just sleep and milk. How bad can that be? Shh. By the way, that about describes my life, too. So there you have it. You and I are even. Do you see me hollering like I’m being murdered? Exactly. Shh. Calm down. No need to cry. What did you say your name was? Alexander? Shh, Alexander. Shh. Who is Alexander?” he asked Esther.

“Her father. Alessandro.” She stood solicitously close, hovering, fretting.

“I thought the child was Anthony?”

“Anthony Alexander.”

“Ah.”

The boy fell quiet. Esther stopped fretting. Herman stopped talking. Alexander looked into his grandfather’s face, reached up, grabbed a good hold of Herman’s cheek and lip, moved from side to side to get comfortable, and then put his head down on Herman’s shoulder. His hand remained partly in Herman’s mouth. Herman settled back, reclined, got comfortable himself. Esther stood quietly by his side. “Do you want me to take him?” she asked.

“Oh, now that I’ve got him quiet, you want to take him?” asked Herman, his voice muffled by Alexander’s chubby fingers. “Some caretaker you are. Go do something else. But quietly. I’ll sit here a minute. Don’t leave me too long, though.”

The kitchen was dappled in afternoon sunlight streaking across the limestone floor and the oak tables. Herman sat facing the green lawn, beyond it the sparkling water shimmering like a mirage.

Esther backed out of the room, whispering that she would be right back, and when she was out in the hall, she put her hand over her mouth to stifle her deep and lingering cry of anguish, of longing, of happiness, all in one tormented silent O.

When she looked in on them half an hour later, she found them in the same position. They were both asleep.

Two

THEY SAT OUTSIDE
on the lanai and had dinner. Herman said they would go inside if it got too cold for him, but it never did. Not even the night breezes from the Waterway drove him inside the four walls.

There was nothing sweeter to Gina than listening to Fernando teach her brother how to strum chords and to accompany himself as he sang. Fernando was supremely musical, supremely gifted, but he informed them that Salvo was hunting for a wrong vocation. “Because, señora, your brother has singing skills like I’ve never seen. He is like, what do they call it?”

“A prodigy?” offered Harry.

“A genius,” declared Fernando in front of the unabashedly pleased Salvo. “He has nearly perfect pitch. Do you know how rare that is?”

“I don’t even know
what
that is,” Gina said.

“It’s not the only thing that’s rare,” muttered Esther.

“Well, never mind,” Fernando said. “It’s amazing. Salvo, if horticulture doesn’t work out, you can always become a troubadour. You will have to go to Miami for work, but you will be handsomely rewarded for your commute.”

“
Amigo
,” exclaimed Salvo, “
that’s
your big dream for me? You want me to be a busker?”

“Sounds about right,” Esther said under her breath.

“What can be better than being a singer?”

“A singer on the streets?”

“Better than the flower lessons you’ve been taking.”